Running Up That Hill (If I Only Could)
by PhoenixDragonDreamer
Summary: It happened so fast. He felt like he was scrambling to catch up, even as he remained two steps ahead, knowing when to move, when to stay put. Then again, he had done this before, hadn't he?


**Warnings/Contains:** Drug Use, Blood, Violence, Sexual Situations, Angst, Dark!Fic, Suicidal Ideations (set in 2014!End Verse)

**A/N:** Written for the fun and ever intense **kamikazeremix**. It has been a long while since I have stepped foot into the Supernatural Fandom and I know some of you have been waiting for this for a long time. I can only hope this is as good as you have hoped for! This was a fantastic fiction and it was a real pleasure to read and Remix - if I did the original work even a modicum of justice, I will be content. Beta'd by my wonderful and ever brilliant Fic-Wife, **lonewytch**! You are amazing, my dearest one - don't let anyone ever tell you differently! So as always, any sentence fails, blatant vagueness and grammatical oh noes are all on my head. I certainly hope anyone who reads this will enjoy!

**A/N 2: **Remix of _Running Up That Hill_ by **princess_aleera**

**Disclaimer: _Sadly (for me) I do not own them - they are owned by The CW, Kripke and Co. I just (unfortunately for THEM) like to play with them occasionally. I promise I will put them back in the same condition I found them in (which wasn't all that great to begin with *grins*). Not making any money - just having an awesome time!_**

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It happened so fast. He felt like he was scrambling to catch up, even as he remained two steps ahead, knowing when to move, when to stay put. Then again, he had done this before, hadn't he? He woke up, Sam was gone and he knew that Detroit was his next destination.

He did the only thing he knew to do. He grabbed Cas (so innocent then, so young and naïve and just getting to know that Hell and Earth could co-exist in the same place), and ran – no major idea of where to go (not then), he just knew he had to keep moving. He thought it had been a nightmare before…

He would give anything to even see Zach's smug, fat face.

He'd say yes.

There was nothing to say yes to anymore; Castiel a haunting reminder, a taunt in the face of damnation boiling up out of the earth. He said once (only once) as it all began, that the voices that were ever constant in his mind had fallen silent. His brothers and sisters had moved on. Or died. Or never were. Dean wasn't really sure how those things worked.

He didn't really care either.

He said nothing when Cas stole the scotch; he wasn't fond of it and all it did was bring back memories of another good man long gone. He said nothing when Cas got rip-roaring, shitfaced drunk (who was he to judge?) He said nothing when he watched his friend, his reason for staying sane in a world gone mad, fall down a path that led only one way. They were in a slow spiral and it would be a mercy if Dean would just shoot him in the head before letting him fall completely.

He always was a selfish bastard.

Cas tasted like scotch and pain when he kissed him that first time. The former angel clung to him like he was The Answer he had been searching for. Like the taste of Dean's skin was the solution to life, the universe and everything.

The Righteous and the Fallen broke against one another as the Damned screamed, raped and slaughtered all around them.

But that was just the beginning.

**O-o-O**

He didn't know where Cas had found the stuff, but he knew coke when he saw it. It was bad (it showed how far he had slipped), when he looked back over the last few days and only now realized that Cas must have been high the whole time. He had been so grateful to see that serene, half-knowing smile…he should've known.

This was the beginning of the end after all.

"Where are we going?" Castiel asked as they flashed through another rural township (never stopping, always going-going-going).

"I need to check on someone," was Dean's only reply, unable to help the frown on his face as blood trickled unnoticed from Cas' left nostril. He checked the urge to smear it away with his thumb; to erase what Castiel was becoming.

He had to be their Hope.

What a fucking joke.

So he drove like Lucifer himself was chasing him. He drove and avoided the major cities (the first to fall and the last place you wanted to be caught in), sailing through small towns and countrysides that were just starting to wobble under the taint of the Virus. He drove and pretended to not see the four year old boy by the side of the road (six hours ago, but ever-haunting), smile full of teeth as he chewed on the leg of what had to have been his pet puppy.

There was horror all around, but that one stuck with him.

"Okay," Castiel said finally, his demeanor blissfully absent, _his_smile serene and full of teeth as blood trailed down his upper lip.

Crimson upon white.

The taste was copper, fear and hope tottering to its death by the roadside, chewed apart by a human populace that was being whittled away to nothing. But as Dean licked Castiel's blood from his own lips, he had to remind himself that the former angel wasn't human. Not even now.

Dean didn't know if that was a blessing or a sign.

**O-o-O**

"At least she didn't burn to death on her ceiling," was all he could say. It was all he dared to say.

Cas said nothing.

He wanted to shoot him. Then he wanted to kill himself. But what purpose would that serve?

There was still hope. False hope. But hope.

Lisa and Ben could have escaped.

He knew better than that, though. They had scoured the towns, cities and rural backwaters, looking for survivors, finding few, helping those they could – killing those that were beyond help. All he had hoped for was this one little thing. Just this one.

The scotch tasted like ashes and regret.

It actually tasted good.

**O-o-O**

He had become a hard man. He had become a cold man. He knew this – and yet, he still hadn't found the courage to blow it all to hell. He still hadn't found the will to eat a bullet. There were always distractions. There were always more people to help. Always more things to detract from Dean Winchester, son of John and Mary, the Hunter; more things to add to Dean Winchester, son of no one, the Angel of Death for Croats – the former Sword of Michael.

His sharp edges now used to make shallow cuts – the slow bleeding away of all that he had been and stood for. He had infected himself with his own humanity. He would have found it funny if his sense of humor hadn't rolled away like so much smoke from one of Castiel's 'mix-n-match' joints. He was becoming a monster. Castiel was becoming human.

Yeah. That should have been funny.

**O-o-O**

Lisa was a surprise.

Well…not really – but he had stopped hoping.

When he found out what happened to Ben, he knew that Hope had died with the first taste of Castiel's lips.

He took her to the 'recruitment' center and fucked her across the conference table – fierce and fast – bruises shining bleak and satisfying from her breasts and hips. Nothing was said as they rutted their way to completion. Everything that needed to be said was bitten across his shoulders, scratched into his back. Everything that needed to be said flashed purple-black from her tanned skin as she shrugged her shirt back on.

She smiled a smug smile and declined his offer to stay in his cabin.

He pretended to not notice the jealousy, the disappointment and pain that flashed in Castiel's eyes when Lisa walked out of the center, hips swaying in satisfaction, grim twist to her mouth.

He turned back to the center and tried to not think of Lisa destroying her own son. He tried to not think of how she came with hatred in her eyes. He tried to not think of her being him – a reflection and a taunt from the Devil Himself.

Castiel still welcomed him, with lips that no longer tasted of Grace, but of pot and Hennessy – his skin too warm and pliable beneath Dean's hands. But there was still a lot to be said between them.

Cas said it all on his hands and knees – and Dean tried to remember what love was like. All he knew was that it tasted of hope. Hope tasted of home.

He didn't know how anymore: the definitions of hope, love and home as elusive as the dreams Cas clung to in the haze of his narcotic fantasies.

Castiel made him leave afterwards. The pieces of his heart couldn't break any further, but they shivered as Castiel turned away – his naked body scarred and too thin. There was no room for him here anymore. He didn't know if there ever had been.

He didn't kiss him before he left.

**O-o-O**

He knew that Cas and Lisa were fucking. It was kind of obvious to everyone at camp when she was frequently seen leaving the angel's cabin, her eyes satisfied, her gait loose, her mouth twisted into a grimace reminiscent of a smile. His lovers had found each other. He didn't know if he had the capacity to be jealous of them. He just hoped they found happiness with each other that couldn't be found with him.

If he had the soul, he would have wept for them both. He would have cried for all those things he couldn't have. For the all the (many, varied) things he couldn't be for them.

All of that belonged to a different Dean Winchester.

He licked his lips and drained his glass of scotch, one eye on his handgun.

He thought about being merciful.

Then he thought about hope.

When he was done thinking, he called for his best soldiers: the ultimate Hunt had come to hand and Lucifer was waving a red flag in his direction. He knew how this ended. He knew how it began.

He could have smiled from sheer relief that after all this time, it was now Time.

He thought about mercy from his own hand.

Then he thought about mercy while facing off a hail of bullets from the enemy.

Die by the hand of one who could no longer love you, except with cold steel and powder? Or die by the hand of ones who don't understand the basic concept of love? It was a hard choice.

He knew how he'd rather die.

He licked the memory of Grace from his lips and pressed trembling fingers against the bite-mark Lees had made against his left shoulder. He could feel them both, right here – the handprint of the long dead, the mark of the dying. He breathed in what could have been and found his well of tears was still there. But his heart was too frozen to let them flow.

He knew how he'd rather die. He knew how they would die. He thought again about Mercy. He thought about Love. He thought about home and hope and joy and a cold beer after a successful hunt.

He thought about Lisa's laugh – her mouth curled with sly humor as her eyes danced mischief. He thought about Ben, brow furrowed as he worked a math problem through, his joy at the slightest praise received from one Dean Winchester. He thought about Castiel – the way he was before, the way he was now and all the bleak, grey-smeared differences between.

He didn't once think about Sam.

By the time he reached the lead truck, provisions and weapons already packed, troops already assembled, he had stopped thinking. He had his people, he had his determination. He had the Colt (for all the good it would do). He had the taste of Castiel on his lips and the feel of Lisa against his aching skin. He had Death riding shotgun.

He didn't look at either of his friends, his lovers as they pulled away from camp.

Love was never to be his.

Mercy would have to do.


End file.
